The Diary Of Pamela D. by greg monks

now, is it?’
    ‘But . . . what are we talking
about?’
    ‘Pamela! Come on, finish
your lunch. It’s time we were getting back. If you need me to tell
you something like that , well! You’re just going to have to muddle through this one
on your own.’
     
    That Sunday they went to
church, and Pamela discovered that, as Mrs. Dewhurst had said,
church was a household affair. To her surprise, she found the
experience enjoyable. As well, it brought her one step closer to
feeling as though she truly belonged to something. The only other time she had
experienced anything similar was during Christmas at the Mission.
But this experience was wholly different: it was more far-reaching,
in ways she couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t a sentiment that
began and ended with the holiday season; it was an ongoing
tradition that permeated the lives of the people she lived amongst,
and she found herself wanting very much to be a part of
things.
    When it came time to sing hymns, however, she
found that the choir-director had actually turned and was looking
right at her. Thinking that she was singing too loud, or off-key,
or something, she flushed with embarrassment, dropped her gaze to
the vicinity of the floor and mouthed the rest of the words.
    At the end of the service, as the
congregation was breaking up, she watched with her heart in her
mouth as the choir-director approached her. Flustered, she said, ‘I
didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry . . . ’
    ‘Mr. Howard, meet the newest
addition to our staff, Miss Pamela Dee,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said. ‘And
don’t mind her. She’s always apologizing for something , whether she needs to or
not!’
    ‘You have a North American accent,’ he said
to Pamela. ‘Where are you from?’
    Pamela told him.
    ‘And how long do you intend on staying . . .
?’ His eyes strayed to Mrs. Dewhurst as he said this.
    ‘Why, she is living with us
more or less permanently , Mr. Howard.’
    ‘Indeed? Then perhaps Miss Dee would be so
kind as to lend our little choir the use of her beautiful soprano
voice?’
    ‘Wha- I can’t sing!’ Pamela blurted, turning
crimson.
    To her surprise, Mr. Howard and the people
standing near to her chuckled in response.
    ‘My dear,’ Mr. Howard told her, ‘if you truly
cannot sing, then I hope to enjoy endless hours of your alleged
inability in the weeks, months and years to come.’
    ‘She’ll be at choir practice on Wednesday,’
said Mrs. Dewhurst, without waiting for an affirmation or refusal
from Pamela.
    ‘Splendid! I’ll arrange transportation for
her . . . ’
    The conversation became desultory after that,
during which Pamela noticed Theo watching her with an odd
expression- she couldn’t tell whether he was angry with her or
what. He had given her a similar look when he had first seen her
wearing one of her new outfits, an autumn-rust-coloured sweater,
heavy thigh-length forest-green wool skirt, comfortable black hose,
the first she had ever worn in her life, sensible leather shoes, a
fashionable-looking beret and warm quilted jacket. His eyes, then
as now, strayed almost unwillingly to her legs, her bust, her
overall form, as though he was satisfied with what he saw- if
“satisfied” was the right word. She found herself squirming under
his scrutiny, but not as though she didn’t like his attention, but
rather because she found herself wishing . . . what? That he would
come to her and- do what? Once again, her gaze caught by his, she
found something disturbing in his gaze that took her breath away,
made her heart pound uncontrollably. But she didn’t look away,
afraid that if she did so, he would too, would lose interest in
whatever it was he saw in her.
    ‘ Pamela ! Are you coming?’
    ‘What? Oh, sorry . . . I’m coming, Mrs.
Pascoe.’
    ‘Pamela Dee, if I hear you apologise to me
once more, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap!’
     
    Things took on a comfortable routine over the
next several weeks, broken only by choir practice,